[dropcap]I[/dropcap]’ll never go sailing with you again,” she said.
Jamie was overreacting. Our perdicament wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it that Indian Pass is crawling with bullsharks. Likewise, I can’t help it that bullsharks like to swim next to small sailboats. Neither can I help it that my small racing craft is only big enough for one person.
All I know is, Jamie wanted to go sailing. So that morning, I strapped her to the bow of the boat, and by George, we went sailing.
The first bullshark we saw was a beauty. I believe it was a teenage shark because its fin was the size of my hand. The next creature we saw must’ve been the first one’s older brother. It was a monstrosity, with a dorsal fin the size of a refrigerator.
“Hey,” I said. “Don’t move. You’ll tip the boat if you move like that.”
But she paid me no mind. She tried to crawl back to the cockpit, and that was it. The S.S. Squirrel went belly up. We plunged into the shark infested water, beer coozies and all. The last thing I remember was Jamie’s hindquarters pressed up against my face.
“You dumbass!” she said, bobbing in the water.
“Me?” I said. ” What’d I do? You’re the one who tipped the boat.”
“Sean, you know what happens when you tell me not to do something.”
My smile faded, and my face became serious.
“What?” she yelled. “You see a shark?”
“Jamie,” I said. “Whatever you do, please don’t let me watch baseball tonight.”